You’ve seen me doing my hours emptying the ashtrays of third hand taxis cabsand scrubbing hard with bleach their tainted back seats before they’re offered up again to the god of whatever the market fetchesin a town the government has privately agreedis to be discontinued, and wonderedwhat’s with her smirk?

You’ve seen me doing my hours in the two Euro shop and consideredoffering me twenty quidfor a quick ride around the back of the disused funeral parlournext door. For you’ve no ideawhat I am.

If you’d any sense you’d wake screamingevery night in fear of me. By the time you do I’ll be standing over youand you’ll still be wonderingwhat’s with her smirk?

For there’s a crowd coming behind mecarrying a flag you won’t believeyou’re seeing againuntil you do.

You’ll go red in the face like an old foolabout to choke to death during sex, and tell me I’ll have fries with that. For you’ve no clue who I am. You’ll fumble for your wallet and toss me a fifty Euro tip, and wonder,one last time, what’s with herinsufferable smirk?

For by then the ship you thought would never come inwill have quietly dockedflying a flag you’ll rememberfrom the history books.Its contraband cargo that will give us the metal to own everything you think rightfully yoursbeing silently unloaded by others like memade what they are by years looking at the likes of youpoured into your waistcoat, believing inthe divine right of your money.

My pals will be here presently – knock knock –with their methods of persuasion andthe flag they rescued from the dustbinin which you tried to bury it.

First question they’ll popwhen they see you tied up herewill be toss him in the skip right now,or lock him in the attic for later?